Poems (Chandler)/A Problem

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A PROBLEM.
MY darling has a merry eye, And voice like silver bells: How shall I win her, prithee, say;— By what magic spells?
If I frown, she shakes her head;  If I weep, she smiles: Time would fail me to recount  All her wilful wiles.
She flouts me so,—she stings me so,— Yet will not let me stir,—In vain I try to pass her by,  My little chestnut bur.
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When I yield to every whim,  She straight begins to pout. Teach me how to read my love,  How to find her out!
For flowers she gives me thistle-blooms,— Her turtle-doves are crows,—I am the groaning weather-vane,  And she the wind that blows.
My little love! My teasing love  Was woman made for man,— A rose that blossomed from his side? Believe it—those who can.
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